North of the Frost Dragon Fief, deep in the valley, snow lay thick beneath a white forest that blotted out the sky.
In this land of lingering snow, overlooked by the Northern Frontier, a dying force was quietly awakening, preparing its final counterattack.
Dim animal-fat torches burned deep inside a cave, stretching the shadows of dozens of figures.
They wore animal hides and carried iron blades. Some wore helmets of feathers and bone, others bore ancient tattoos on their faces, and some stood barefoot on the ice in clothing that barely covered them. The bitter wind seemed never to have driven them away.
These were the chiefs and leaders of the remaining Barbarians.
More precisely, this was everyone the Snowfield could still muster.
Uru stood beside the fire, silently watching them, his silhouette carved into shadow by the flames.
His title was envoy, a man temporarily elected by the tribes to convey the Barbarians' views to the Imperial Prince.
Outside the ice cavern, several branches, including Blackrock, Snow Wolf, and Lament, had assembled nearly six hundred Boiling Blood warriors.
They excelled at charges and close combat, raiders trained from childhood with countless victories behind them-the elite of the Barbarians, bearing memories written in blood.
These men were all the strength the Barbarians had left.
They had been gathered for one purpose alone.
They would not confront the Northern Frontier's knight orders head-on. Such a clash meant gambling their lives on an uncertain outcome.
Their aim was a decapitation strike: to overturn the long table on the day of the conference and make those nobles and decision-makers, laughing over raised glasses, taste fear amid flames and chaos.
If they succeeded, the Northern Frontier would descend into disorder, allowing them to seize food and land amid the turmoil and secure a sliver